"Man does not control his own fate. The women in his life do that for him."-Groucho Marx

It's a coincidence, a cruel cosmic joke the universe is making because it likes to see him suffer.

It's her handwriting. There's no denying that. He'd know that ledger anywhere. He's seen it scrawled across time and space, carved into mountains and monuments, burned into precious relics. He's seen it in the form of casual doodles and carefully written love letters. But he hasn't seen this particular note in a very long time, a lifetime in fact.

"The Library. Come as soon as you can. X"

It's just lying there, taunting him, eight words that bring him to his knees. It's a cry for help, signed with a kiss. A kiss that puts knots in his stomach and knives in his hearts. It makes his mouth dry and cracked, leaving a bitter taste clinging to his tongue like ashes or poison. She's always killing him with kisses.

He's read it a thousand times. He's examined it, tucked it away, stared at it again, thrown it across the room, carefully picked it up, soniced it, willed it to say something else, anything else. And yet, there it sits, as if the words were carved into the parchment like one of her calling cards for him to find, a casual invitation for laughing and running and adventure. But it's anything but.

"The Library"

Those words only bring death and heartache. A nightmare he's already lived once and has no desire to enact again. It must be a mistake, just a malfunction, psychic residue from the past bleeding through. Maybe he passed through a gamma pocket in the vortex or the dimension dams need tuning. Or maybe the paper is just getting old now. Things do that, don't they? Get wonky when they get old. Like him, he gets confused and distracted far more often than he used to. Like that time on Habet when he accidentally sat on the Emperor because he got distracted by the local hat collection, but none of that is important right now because his feet are pacing around the console and his eyes keep gravitating to the psychic paper and-

"as soon as you can. X"

His days with River were done. He'd accepted that. He'd moved on, well, as much as one could move on from River Song. He still keeps her with him in subtle ways: a key to the TARDIS hidden away in one of her books, artifacts she'd discovered on display, and a blue bow tie in his breast pocket. She never fully relinquished her hold on his hearts. The ones you love never truly leave you. She'll always be the dull ache in his chest that never seems to fade, always that thought he can't quite form, dancing just beyond his grasp. She is the empty space he can never quite fill. But he learned to cope, accepted that she wasn't coming back. He was living again, and now…

He turns away from the paper again, needing physical separation from the parchment. His hands wrap around the railing, knuckles turning white in an attempt to not turn around, not to look at it. But it's no use. No matter what he does, the message stares at him. It follows him around the room, mocking him. He feels it across his skin, tickling the hairs of his neck like it's a living breathing being. It burns its way into the curious bits of his brain. The part that whispers, what if?

He should put it back in his pocket. He should forget about it. Yeah, he will. Definitely.

Except-

It's made a home right behind his eyes, itching and nagging at him like a half finished project, an unsolved puzzle. River was always doing that to him, dangling mysteries in front of him and teasing him with improbable things. But to be fair, she's never led him astray before. Maybe he could-

No. No no no. It's probably not even from her. Anyone could have sent that message. Lots of people can communicate directly with psychic paper and sign summons with kisses and order him about and- Well, in any case, there are millions of libraries in the universe. It's not inconceivable to think it's not even The Libraryhe's been invited to. He's just looking for things that aren't there, making puzzles of nothing and putting square pegs in round holes.

But what if he isn't? Why would she send him the same message twice? Is she being deliberately cryptic? She could be earlier in her timestream and-

No. Now he's really reaching. It's just an error, residual memory bleeding through the psychic paper because it's old. Old and ridiculous and impossible. He should just forget about it. He's good at that, forgetting.

Still, he can't help the nagging feeling that this is important. That this might be his last chance to see her. One last surprise from Professor Song, one last adventure, one more gift. Maybe he sees her before she sees his younger self. It's hardly the first time he's crossed his own timestream. Though, she did say the last time she saw him was Darillium. Then again, Rule One.

He bats the idea away immediately. Even in his imagination that's reaching. Talking to her before the Library is out of the question. He barely made it through Darillium without begging her not to go, without collapsing at her feet and pleading with her to just stay, demanding that they run away together and paradoxes and consequences be damned. But he didn't, because, like her, he wouldn't do anything to jeopardize their time together. If he has to suffer the weight of her loss to save their time and memories, so be it. He would suffer the weight of a thousand guilty consciences if it meant he could keep her, even if only in his memories. Besides, The Library is no place to pop in mysteriously and tease her about spoilers. Then again, maybe she doesn't see him, maybe he sees her. Would he be strong enough for that: to watch from afar as she marched to her death? In a way, he's been doing it her whole life. If it was from a safe distance, what could seeing her once more hurt?

Well, a lot actually. For starters, his tenuous grip on sanity. But it's too tempting. He should check it out, just in case. He owes it to her, and to himself, to at least investigate. He never could leave a puzzle unsolved. River was always the best puzzle, and the allure of seeing her again outweighs the heartache that will surly follow in its wake. He inputs the much dreaded coordinates to the Library, pointedly ignoring the flicker of hope burning between his hearts. After all, it's probably nothing.

In a matter of moments he's opening the doors to a familiar skyline. It's a sight these eyes have never witnessed, but it's still etched into his memory, haunting his dreams. An orange sunset silhouettes skyscrapers and a doctor moon still hangs high in the sky. It's something he never wanted to see again, a memory he ran from at every opportunity, a day he filed away, never to be acknowledged again. Only one woman could make him come here. Only one woman would even try.

It's nothing like the first time though, with eerie, empty halls and dust in every sunbeam. This time the corridors are bustling with people. It must only be a matter of hours since he left the first time, since he first snapped his fingers and began to believe in a future with the brave stranger that knew him so intimately. It's only hours for them and ages for him. Hundreds of years since his lungs breathed this air, since his skin felt this sunlight, and his footsteps echoed through these halls. No one takes any notice of him as he makes his way through the sea of smiling faces. No one bothers with the young man with the old eyes as he squeezes his way through the crowds and joyous reunions. No one hears the sound of his breaking hearts over their laughter and merriment.

It should make him happy, 4,022 people saved. It had made him happy once, or at least it dulled the ache. That was before he understood what saving them had cost, before River Song and the ends of the universe, before time and space, before they people don't understand the extent of what happened here. They don't yet know they have been brought back to the land of the living one hundred years out of their time. They don't know that they are only free to bask in the sunlight because of a deal he made with the shadows. They are ungrateful and unaware of the woman who saved them all, who saved him.

They don't know what he lost.

He wanders aimlessly, not really sure what he's expecting to find. He hunts for her in the sea of thousands, eyes longing to spot her green eyes or mad curls amongst the masses. He imagines her perched on the edge of a table or leaning against a bookshelf, smirking and teasing and spoilers. A hello sweetie. A kiss. A slap. Anything to prove that she's still real, still flesh and blood and more than just someone he used to know, more than just a story. He wants evidence that it wasn't just a mix up with the psychic paper, that he didn't come here for no reason, hadn't gotten his hopes up for nothing.

But she's nowhere to be found. It's like she was never here at all. There isn't even a body. Even that would have been better than nothing. Though it would haunt his nightmares, at least then he would know, at least he would have closure.

Walking among the masses, there isn't even a whisper of the heroic woman with the mad, curly hair who saved them all. For these smiling faces, one of the worst days of his life was just another day. It makes him feel small in a way he hasn't felt in a long while. What he wouldn't give for one of her cryptic messages or a mysterious summons. For a moment, he allows himself to imagine speaking to her in the mainframe. Surely that would be proof enough to solidify his slowly evaporating hope. But even if he found the strength to speak to her through the data core, he knows he can't. Bound by foreknowledge from her ghost already telling him he hadn't come to say goodbye. And now his hands are tied. He can't visit her in the Library any more than he could have avoided taking her to Darillium.

What he wouldn't give to see her, just a glimmer, just something to prove she wasn't a dream. Something of hers he could hold and touch, something tangible that proved their love and adventures are more than just a fairytale he told himself to keep from going mad. What he wouldn't give for- her diary.

He really is getting old and slow.

Once again he finds himself sprinting through these halls, dodging bookshelves and leaping over carts. He can almost feel her next to him. She is the fluttering of his heart. She is the adrenaline coursing through his veins. She is hope blooming between his hearts. She is the force pushing him through the crowd until he finds himself fumbling down the familiar stairwell where he so carelessly left her diary last time he was here. His eyes fall expectantly to the railing, scouring for any hint of TARDIS blue.

But there's nothing, not even a trace.

"No no no no!" He growls to himself, frantically searching the railing and the surrounding floor. Her diary is gone. His last chance for something tangible, something to cling to to prove she wasn't a dream. And it's gone, with no way of recovering it. It had been dangerous and foolish to leave it lying there. He sees that now, but back then he didn't know how important that blue book was, that it was more than the hopes and dreams of an archeologist. It is their history and twisted timelines etched into parchment with ink and graphite. It is love, trapped within paper and bound between worn, blue covers. It's their story, and it's potentially the most dangerous book in history. If her diary ever fell into the wrong hands, the results could be disastrous.

"Who took it?" He demands, turning to the surrounding patrons, and if his behavior frightens or concerns them, good. He's not really sure what he'll do without her diary. The promise of nourishment ripped away from a starving man, and now he's left with no choice but to be rabid and angry. Angry at the psychic paper for luring him here, angry at himself for being so weak, and angry at whoever took the last remaining piece of her.

"There was a diary sitting right here." He tries again, voice low and dangerous. Everyone's looking at him now, and his gaze bores into each and every one of them, the deranged look in his eyes draining all merriment from their faces.

"What have you lost, sir?" One of the Library attendants speaks up.

"I haven't lost anything! Someone took it!" He's practically shouting, voice bordering on hysteria, but he can't seem to find the will to care. He promised himself he'd move on, that he'd never go trying to siphon off moments with a woman who was long gone. He swore he would never come back here. But since he's already sunk this far, why not a little bit farther?

"Took what?"

"A book! A blue book!" The Doctor shouts, slamming his hand down on the railing.

"Perhaps we can find you another copy-" The attendant starts, before being interrupted by a four armed creature The Doctor recognizes as a Quatto. Great for multi tasking, Quattors. They must have been brought in to help with damage control.

"I don't know about a diary," the creature speaks up. "But someone did leave a note for 'a panicking idiot in a bow tie.' I assume that's you."

The Doctor's hearts leap into his throat, anger from a moment ago suddenly dissipating as he rushes over to the creature. "Who?" He asks desperately. "Where did they go? What did they look like?"

"I don't know, just someone." The Quattor answers, handing him a folded piece of paper. "You humans all look the same to me."

He lets the assumption slide, too caught up in opening the note. Upon unfolding the paper, he can't do anything but stare at the sight of coordinates written in familiar handwriting.

The run back to the TARDIS is a blur, all pounding hearts, his pulse in his ears, and only one thought behind his eyes. Never before has he input coordinates so fast. Never before has his mind raced so quickly with possibilities and yet been so positively clear. There is only one thought, shining brightly above the rest. River. Alive. Waiting.

He barely even registers the shudder of the ship as he lands, sprinting to the doors so fast he nearly barrels right through them. But he somehow manages to steady himself, taking a deep, calming breath and straightening his bow tie. He doesn't know exactly what to expect beyond those doors, but he knows it's her. He can feel it in his bones, sense it in the warm hum of his ship. River Song is just beyond those doors, and not just any River, a River that not only knows about the Library, but has been there, survived it.

He smoothes down his hair, allowing his mind to run rampant with romantic scenarios of dancing and kissing and swinging her in his arms, of holding her and never ever letting her go. His mind is filled to the brim with all the things he never allowed himself to imagine as he slowly pulls open the TARDIS doors. It's dark and small and he finds himself fumbling over various equipment and his foot is caught in something and he's starting to think he might actually be under attack when the hand groping the wall finally finds a light. Around him there are mops and cleaners and there seems to be a bucket holding his foot hostage, and it's only then that he realizes he's parked in a broom closet.

Not exactly romantic, but he can't help but smile anyway. It's so very River to send him on a scavenger hunt, never making things simple for him. He's all too happy to play along. He's missed chasing her through time and space. Untangling himself from the janitorial supplies, he takes his first step out into the building. The first thing he notices are the too bright lights and overly polished floors. There's also a faint smell of cleaner lingering in the air, but, actually, that might be him.

It's definitely some kind of hallway, though. There's a quiet, calming energy about the place, and if he tastes the air correctly, it's a 51st century chemical used to stabilize anxiety. It's often used in high traffic areas like shopping centers, sports arenas, hospitals- The last thought wipes the smile right off his face, all hope and thoughts of a joyous reunion suddenly crashing down on him. A hospital.

Looking around, his fears are realized by the sight of an "ER" sign hanging on the wall. Pushing back the rising tide of panic, he continues down the long corridor. He must be in some type of observation ward because on either side of him are thick panes of glass, and through them he can see comatose patients hooked up to various machinery. His mind is buzzing with a thousand questions: Why would she bring him here? Is she hurt? If so, how did she leave him a note?He's just about to get out his sonic and do a scan when he sees them: those reddish blond curls he'd know anywhere. Everything he knows focuses down to one point, smaller than the eye of a needle. At the end of the hall and behind a thick pane of glass, she's asleep in a hospital bed. The sight makes his hearts swell and sink and burst and crumble all at once. He's down the hall before he's even remembered he has feet, pulled toward her like she is the sun and he is passing debris, helpless but to be caught up in her gravity. Everything is too bright, too white, and it feels a bit like a dream, like he'll never need to eat or sleep or breathe as long as he can keep his eyes fixed on her.

Fear crashes over him at the thought that he might, indeed, be dreaming. He finds his hand lifting to touch the glass, needing the feel of something solid against his skin, something tangible to tether him to this impossible reality. He stares at her in awe, gazing at her as if she were some profound artifact locked behind a museum exhibit.

"River." He breathes her name, the title falling from his mouth as comfortable and familiar as an old habit. It's been so long since he allowed himself the privilege of saying it. He expected it to sound foreign and awkward, to stumble over the syllables as he forced the word out from between unworthy lips. But it doesn't. He exhales the word like it is part of the very air in his lungs. It flows out between his lips, caressing the consonants and rolling the vowels like some kind of psalm. How had he forgotten how good it felt to say her name?

"You can't be back here." A frustrated voice calls, and he turns to find a middle-aged nurse giving him a reproachful stare. "Sir, this is a close ward and-" whatever she sees in his eyes makes her next words catch in her throat, face softening instantly. "Do you know her?" She asks softly, taking a step nearer to him.

His lips threaten to form a sad smile because that question was the understatement of the century. "You could say that." He answers quietly, eyes drifting back to gaze longingly at the unconscious woman before him. "Is she alright?" He asks, and even to himself he sounds brittle, as if speaking too loud would somehow worsen her condition.

"Her injuries were extensive when she arrived, but she's stable now."

"What…" his voice nearly fails him. "What happened? How did she get here?"

"Sorry, but who are you exactly?" She asks, voice tentative, and he passes her his psychic paper without taking his eyes off River. "You're her doctor?" The woman says, and he turns to her, looking almost as surprised as she sounds. "John Smith," she clarifies, looking again at the psychic paper. "Her primary physician?"

"Oh, yes." He nods. "Yes, I'm her doctor."And he always will be.

"Right," the woman passes him back the paper, looking at him less like he's a grieving visitor and more like a business man she's about to make a deal with. "You can't examine her presently. We're not allowing visitors at this time, but I'm sure the attending physician will be happy to update you on her conditi-"

Suddenly he doesn't hear another word from the woman's mouth, just white noise singing in his ears, sharp and hopeful and deafening with possibility. He makes for the door, the irritated nurse hot on his heels.

"We're not allowing visitors at this time, sir." She repeats, more forceful this time.

Retrieving his sonic from his pocket he replies, "She'll want to see me." He hopes.

"Yes, but sir, there's something you should know-"

He points his sonic off to the left, setting off an alarm and successfully silencing the nurse. She looks from him to the alarm, then back again before giving a reluctant look and heading toward the sound.

He smirks, only a little bit smug, as he silently steps into the room and closes the door. The sound of the alarm down the hall can barely be heard over the hum of various machinery. Loudest of all are the heart monitors, their beeping slow and steady and- she has a pulse, actual beating hearts in her chest. A chest that's rising and falling as air fills her lungs because she's alive and he can hardly believe his eyes.

Tucking his sonic away, he steps closer. She's asleep, hair haloed around her face. It reminds him of Berlin, the first of many times she almost died for him. And here he is, standing in front of her after the one time she succeeded, or, he thought she had at least. She's always getting hurt because of him. He makes a silent promise to never let that happen again. He won't let this miracle go to waste. He'll never let another second go by where she doesn't know how cherished she is, that he's so very grateful for every beat of her hearts and every breath that she takes. He'll rejoice in the way she yells and slaps and reprimands him, just as long as she is alive to do it. He'll endure her wrath gladly, no matter how furious she may be with him for keeping such a terrible secret from her all these years.

He'll never keep another secret from her again. He doesn't have to.

That revelation is almost too much, and he finds himself unable to refrain from touching her any longer. He lifts a hand, a barely there touch brushing a stray curl behind her ear. She's soft and warm beneath his fingertips, and without his permission, his lips have lowered to place a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"Hi honey, I'm home." He breathes against her skin, a quiet promise to never let her go again.

She lets out a deep breath, shifting slightly as she opens her eyes. She blinks up at him in surprise, and he finds himself dumbfounded by such a simple feat. Her eyes are open and green and he never thought he'd see such a miracle ever again. They're even more lovely than he remembered. His memory had dulled them, stripped them of the way they shine and glow like embers. How had he forgotten something so precious?

Her lips part, dry mouth and tongue crackling slightly as she prepares to speak, the anticipation of hearing her voice again nearly sending his hearts into palpitations and-

"I already told you, sir, you can't be in here!" The nurse's voice makes him turn his head around so fast he nearly gets whip lash. She didn't come alone, either. She's brought two rather large security guards with her, and this is all so typical.

"It's fine, I promise. I'm The Doctor." His protests casually, but it doesn't seem to discourage the men as they grab him by the arms and start to all but carry him out of the room. His wife doesn't say a word, and, again, fair enough. He deserves a little bit of man handling after all that's happened. But he'd prefer it came from her, and surely she won't let them arrest him. Actually, on second thought, "River, tell them." He begs. "Tell them I'm The Doctor."

"Another one?" She laughs, sitting up straighter in her bed. "Honestly, how many do I need?" Not exactly the reaction he expected. But at least the guards have stopped trying to drag him from the room and there's an edge of hollow humor in her voice and-

That's when it hits him. She's not excited or angry. She's not throwing herself into his arms to kiss him senseless or smacking him across the face, demanding to know where the hell he's been. She's just sitting there, indifference spelled across her face like she doesn't care that he's here, thather Doctor is standing right in front of her. And it hurts worse than any slap to the face.

It must be some kind of sick joke. He finally has her, finally in the right order, finally they can be together free of secrets and spoilers and rule one. And yet she's staring at him with wide, confused eyes that cut right through him. "River," he breathes tentatively. "Please tell me you know who I am."

She's quiet for a moment, eyes looking from him to the other occupants as if the answer were written on their faces. Eyes finally landing back on him, she asks, "who are you?"